


Agape

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:43:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it might be easier to hang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agape

**Author's Note:**

> a most happiest of birthdays to my bff [](http://cat-o-wen.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://cat-o-wen.livejournal.com/)**cat_o_wen** . I am so glad to have had this little movie happen to introduce me to one of the sweetest, nicest, most kind and full of heart people I've ever had the pleasure to meet. AND most talented designers too. :))) May you have a brilliant day doing whatever you love and know that I wish you every bit of luck and love in your life, and I will never forget the kindness you've shown me in the years I've known you and hope to know you. *big smooch and love* and sorry if there are typos *laughs* Love you to bits  <3333

 

  
The evening was unseasonably warm.

After much debate and much guilt and much worry back and forth, Arthur rolled up the parchment he’d been writing on and put away his stylus and tablets carefully. His desk was always neat, but without its usual accoutrements, it seemed lifeless. He stood and blew out the lamp he’d been using to write by, and opened the door to the small office he occupied near the Sarmatian’s barrack house. When he’d been promoted, he’d been offered a larger, more ornate room, but he’d insisted upon keeping the one he had been using. Too many things had changed; he wanted to keep control over what he could.

He eyed his long red cloak, but after a moment shut the door behind him and left it lying where it hung neatly over a hook on the wall. He had anticipated being in the office longer than he’d actually stayed, and his dress was a bit too casual for the shining crimson piece of fabric.

He stepped onto the stone walkway and turned left; his first goal was the same as always, and also as always the chapel was empty when he entered. Kneeling, Arthur began his nightly requests for forgiveness and peace and allowed his lips to move freely as his prayers were offered quietly. The warm air might carry them aloft a bit faster than the dread chill of winter.

When he exited the streets of Badon were more raucous and filled, and he scrubbed tiredly at the back of his neck as he determined his next move. The high collar of his tan tunic rubbed his skin and he tugged at the hem, almost stepping in a hole as he paid more attention to his immediate annoyances than his surroundings. His knees ached as he walked and he rolled his eyes at the throbbing, wondering if there might be a day when they didn’t pain him.

Shaking his head at his pride - _you’ve just been to the chapel, have some sense of decorum_ \- Arthur made his way toward his quarters slowly, eyes on the men and women and things that filled the small world that had been his for the past seven years.

He felt sweat trickle at his back; it was quite sticky outside, and he wondered at the amount of activity that seemed to swell at any time there was a second of decent weather. It was uncomfortable in the heat to him, but the other denizens seemed to come from the woodwork when it was like this. He made a soft noise of amusement at the sight of some of his knights sparring in the small ring they’d built by the stables; Bors was most obviously drunk and yet he persisted in fighting with Dagonet; both men were shirtless and sweating, but the tall and slender Sarmatian was practically dancing rings around Bors. Arthur waved a hand at them as he passed and Bors yelled his name – to his dismay, Dagonet took pure advantage of that slip of focus and knocked him in the head smartly.

Arthur smiled at the cursing and continued on toward his quarters, but when he passed the tavern and smelled the aroma of whatever Vanora was cooking and a great many people were enjoying – his stomach rumbled noisily and he patted it in apology. He had eaten lunch, he thought.

Nevertheless, when he approached he was caught quickly by a barmaid who offered him dinner before he could ask for it. He readily agreed and plunked himself down at a free table outside the main doors to the place.

Many people waved or greeted him, but none chose to join him. Arthur thought about that as he sipped at the ale the wench had brought him; _that_ was another change that had come since he’d been made fortress commander. He had been everyone’s friend up until the very moment he had been promoted; now, it was though he had contracted the plague and most avoided him regularly – other than quick smiles and respectful nods, he spoke to none.

None save one, and that one was busy with two legionaries that Arthur thought were part of the new turmae of men that had been assigned from Vindolanda.

His food arrived and he tucked in; the stew was delicious, but his green eyes never wavered from Lancelot and the men he was seated with.

The lack of physical activity that day had Arthur’s back aching and his body sore. His first desire, after filling his belly, was to head to the bathhouse and take care of his tired muscles, but as he ate and watched Lancelot, his mind rapidly forgot his own wants and needs as he narrowed his gaze and paid attention to what his lieutenant was doing.

Coin plunked down on the table the men sat at, and was that dice?

The legionaries grinned at each other and nudged one another as Lancelot swept up the dice in his long fingered hand; Arthur frowned as the Sarmatian shook his closed fist and then threw the carved bits of bone onto the wooden trestle.

A tiny smirk was the only thing that belied Lancelot’s true feelings; the legionaries groaned and laughed at their bad luck.

Several hours and many games later – lost games – they weren’t laughing or smiling jokingly anymore. Arthur had long since abandoned his dinner and was staring with hooded eyes, his stubbled chin in his hand, as Lancelot finally gathered his winnings and stood, sweeping the dice off in the process. He chucked them to one of the men he’d soundly beaten, and allowed the mask of indifference to fall away if only for a brief moment.

Arthur couldn’t hear the words his lieutenant spoke, but he knew drunken anger when he saw it, and stood as Lancelot turned and left the courtyard, opposite of where Arthur had camped out at his table. The legionaries were furious; they leaned into each other, whispering heatedly, one of them touching the hilt of the gladius that was sheathed at his side.

They stood and followed where Lancelot had gone.

Arthur shoved off from the table, throwing a few coins down for his food, his hand feeling for Excalibur, which lay dormant, hanging easily from the baldric that was slung across his chest. Most of the citizens of Badon had long since gone to bed, but he knew these two weren’t headed to quarters. His hobnailed boots rang on the pavement, but the two soldiers were so intent on their purpose they did not turn or acknowledge him. He doubted they knew he was even there.

A hand reached out to him, and he checked the curse that rose to his lips. A lesser officer, wanting to give the night watch report. Arthur’s eyes tracked the legionaries Lancelot had been gambling with but he could not shake the man who insisted upon giving every detail to the new fortress commander.

Finally, the soldier shut his mouth and Arthur thanked him hastily, almost running in his haste to try and catch his lieutenant before something happened that he – and most likely Lancelot – would regret.

Rounding the corner edge of the stables, he stumbled over his own right foot in his haste to stop. The bodies of the two legionaries he’d been following lay a-tumble tangled in one another, their mail twisted and bloody, one of the men still holding his sword. Arthur didn’t breathe for more than a moment – one of the men moaned and he sucked in air, dizzy from the thought the legionaries were dead. If he had to explain this to his superiors, if he’d had to turn in Lancelot for the deaths, albeit mostly deserving as most of the foot soldiers at Badon were not the kindest of men, if things had gone a different way…

He shuddered and uncharacteristically stepped over the legionaries, more intent on findings his drunken friend than he was in caring for soldiers that would have done something he dared not contemplate. The birds that roosted on the eaves of the stables screamed as he slid in his speed, his boots tripping over the loose rocks that littered the alleyway.

Muttering under his breath, he looked left and right for Lancelot, and for the second time that night, someone grabbed his shoulder – only this time, he was dragged from his place and ended up face to face with the man he’d been searching for, the fumes of drink and the smell of road musk and horse rising in a thick miasma, strong enough to make him cough.

“Good Christ, Lancelot,” he swore, jerking his arm out of the other man’s grasp. But Lancelot was in his body space quickly, raising his hand, winding the long spindly fingers in the hair at the base of Arthur’s neck, his lips snatching at Arthur’s before he could say anything more, the kiss unexpected and shocking. Arthur made a sound and tried to pull away, but Lancelot had a winding hold on him, dragging him further into the shadows, the mead on Lancelot’s tongue sickly sweet and the sweat stink that surrounded them overwhelming and cloying. Arthur pushed at the knight, shoving a hand between them, separating their kiss with a wet sound, but Lancelot was having none of it and reattached himself to Arthur, leg rising to snake around Arthur’s calf, his lean body pressing against Arthur’s, breath hot, hands on Arthur’s back.

Arthur snarled but shoved them further back into the alley.

*  
Adjusting his clothing, Arthur shook his head and glared at the sky, his eyes narrowed and sparkling. The danger in his gaze and the anger was directed at no one, as Lancelot was currently smirking and slipping his tunic back over his head, leaning against the stable wall, dirt on his face and a few strands of straw stuck in his curls. Stars winked at them and Arthur bit at his lip, wincing at the full soreness there. God damn him, and God damn Lancelot too.

“I had meant to discuss your game with you,” Arthur spoke finally, having to clear his throat. His attraction to Lancelot would be his undoing; the other man’s charm and personality and _Jesu_. “Those legionaries won’t stop, you know. It might have been better,” he stopped and squeezed at Excalibur’s hilt. What was he saying? That it would have been better had Lancelot killed those men? God. He rubbed at his forehead and ran fingers through his sweaty hair, the tame waves exploding into wild curls, the strange humidity of the day bringing more sweat to his skin. He sighed and turned to face Lancelot, who was dressed and sober. _Thank God for small favors._

“I don’t want to hang, Artos,” Lancelot answered him, the rough timbre of his voice bringing unwanted goose bumps to Arthur’s skin. Lancelot crossed his arms over his chest, taking in a deep breath, sighing, the wind blowing his smell to Arthur. He slipped a hand inside the jacket he had been wearing, the black leather blending well with the dark of the garrison, and pulled a small bag out. It chinked softly; his winnings, Arthur supposed. “I may act a fool, but I am not one.”

“I never said you were,” Arthur came back sharply, catching the bag as Lancelot threw it at him. He hefted the thing; it was full and Arthur pitied any legionnaire that attempted to best Lancelot at anything. He was the only one that had ever beaten the other man in the ring, and Lancelot would still argue with Arthur about the outcome of _that_ particular match. “I don’t relish having to turn you in to my superiors should something more serious happen. Or to have to come up with a plan to smuggle you out of here – alive.” Arthur bit his lip and pitched the bag of coin back at Lancelot, who had shouldered his jerkin. He pocketed the winnings and raised one eyebrow, giving him a pointed and sharp appearance – dark eyes and hair and beard and Arthur sighed for the thousandth time. _This man, oh God, please, keep me sane, Father._

“Not everything is your responsibility, Arthur,” Lancelot bit off, his words icy and soft. “I am my own man. I was protecting myself here long before I met you.” He shoved off the wall he was leaning against, and stopped at Arthur’s side, canting his head to the left in order to look at him. “Even _from_ you,” Lancelot added, the stars winking and sparking and Arthur, despite Lancelot’s words, met the other man’s gaze head on, unable to rip his eyes from Lancelot’s. He twisted his mouth and finally, without realizing he wanted the touch, raised his left hand and cupped Lancelot’s bearded cheek.

“And now?” he asked, dreading the answer.

Lancelot’s eyes pinched, the blackness shining in tandem with the night sky. Lines appeared next to them and Arthur had to squash the urge to run a finger over them.

“And now, I question my instinct every time I see you, every time I hear your voice, every time I remember your hands on me,” Lancelot spoke the words as if they were trivial, cast off things, but his face –

“There are days when I think it _would_ be easier to hang.”

He leaned over, Arthur’s hand sliding with the movement, and kissed Arthur roughly, his lips nipping, dry, possessive, and Arthur closed his eyes and cast his common sense to the wind, for nothing Lancelot could do would ever be able to be explained in Arthur’s orderly mind. One of the things, God help him, that drew him to Lancelot in the first place. Arthur fought his better instinct to move away; he let his left hand slip further and threaded it through the longish curls at the base of Lancelot’s neck. He gripped hard, hard enough to make Lancelot wince and to force a noise from the Sarmatian’s mobile mouth.

The knight pulled back and shrugged his jerkin higher on his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, dislodging Arthur’s fingers, and touched his own lips briefly, eyes fluttering as Arthur lowered his arm and clenched the top of Excalibur. Turning, Lancelot took five steps and then stopped. He dug a hand in his jacket pocket and tossed the bag of coin to Arthur again.

“Buy the men some decent arrows, will you? I’m tired of having to repair the cheap ones you Romans provide us with.”

Arthur opened his mouth but did not reply; if Lancelot had spoken to any other commander the way he did Arthur…and why _did_ Arthur let him, come to think of it?

He swallowed over a dry throat and reversed his previous direction; the soldiers Lancelot had knocked out were gone and Arthur made a mental note to speak to their Legate and make sure they were reassigned as quickly as possible. He slipped the bag of coin inside his tunic; he’d use it the way Lancelot had asked him to, the next time they went to the market.

The humid air dragged at him and made him feel the lethargy that had been coming in since he’d left his office worse. Britain was normally not like this, but on the days it was, everything seemed to slow to a standstill and he hesitated, passing the chapel doors. He licked his dry lips, tasting Lancelot there, and after a brief inward apology sent to the priest that expected him and _God, forgive your son, for he is weak in spirit_ he let his feet guide him toward the knight’s barracks. There were few people out this late; the rollicking streets of earlier were mostly empty and Arthur was not accosted as he gained the long, low building that housed his men.

He squared his shoulders and pushed the door open, ready to ask the questions he’d been almost afraid to earlier.

Arthur Castus wasn’t a fool, either, but he was stymied and confused and he wanted answers and _God fucking hell!_ Lancelot’s room was empty.

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek until it bled, and then pulled the money out from under his tunic that Lancelot had given him earlier. He pitched it on the other man’s cot; let _him_ buy the arrows. And if it was stolen while sitting there?

_There are days when I think it would be easier to hang._

As much as it pained Arthur to think it, he had to agree with the other man. The quiet solitude of death was a welcome thought – he pinched his lips inward and dismissed the idea with a sense of shame and anger. He was his father’s son, and he had a job to do, lives depended on him, and people expected him to do what he said he would do. He was a soldier, and he was good at it, and Jesus, but he had no choice.

He turned and made his way to his own quarters and the silence and quiet of a life half lived – he hung his father’s sword on the wall where it went, methodically undressed and pinched out the lamps that were lit in his rooms. The brazier wasn’t burning due to the unseasonably warm weather, and his sleeping quarters were plunged into darkness. He picked up a fur from his bed, and after laying it over the stone work that made up the seat next to his window, he opened the glass and set himself down, knees rising, arms wrapping around them, eyes on the garrison courtyard. Watching for nothing, he told himself, but when he finally returned to bed the moon was high and fat and his backside was asleep from resting so long against stone.

He drank a mug of watered wine and lay down and waited for sleep to come.

And waited. And waited.

And waited.

When it did, he dreamed of dark eyes and bags of coins and dead men in alleys and he shuddered and woke and crossed to his desk and sat there naked, sitting on his furs, until the sun rose and Jols rapped on his door.


End file.
